


The Third Rail

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Smith - Freeform, First Dates, M/M, Morning Commute, Wordless Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning, Dean and the stranger smile at each other on the train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Rail

When Sandover opened a branch in Chicago, of course Dean got shipped there. _Promoted_ , they called it, and naturally he’d received a huge pay raise. All the same, the high-rise was smack in the middle of downtown, and with the city traffic right at rush hour, there was no way Baby could make that drive. There was no way he _wanted_ to make that drive; Baby would be as good as a target for impatient taxi drivers nudging his bumper, or bike messengers clipping his side mirrors.  Baby was left in the parking garage of his apartment building, where she could still be brought out for trips to the store or minor road trips on the weekends. Otherwise, Dean rode the rails.

                Since Dean grew up in rural Kansas, the idea of riding the L train was novel. Or, at least, it was novel the very first day. After being herded like cattle through the turnstile, he had to fight against the grumpy, slow-moving crowd to find a spot on the platform. When his train finally came, he was pushed and buffeted around until he squeezed through the doors—someone elbowed him in the side, he accidentally stood on a woman’s foot—and then the train took off with a lurch.

                The _smell_. Dean tried to unobtrusively tuck his nose into the collar of his shirt and dreamed of Baby, smelling of leather and the wind whipping through the open windows. As if it couldn’t get any worse, he heard a loud voice rise over the crowd, accusing another of giving him a _funny look._ The people all around Dean looked straight forward, pretending that they weren’t even there, so Dean did, too.

                His new office building was pretty impressive, Dean had to admit it, even though he missed having a secretary who knew him by name, who saved him tilapia quinoa for lunch when he couldn’t make it out of the office. He doesn’t know anyone else in his office, and they seemed content to just nod and smile at him in passing. His office was plain and still undecorated. At Sandover, where he had ruthlessly clawed his way to the top, the name Dean Smith meant something, because being good was never enough. Apparently not here, no matter the high recommendations and the pay grade.

                During his silent lunch hour, his phone rang. He wasn’t sure who he hoped it would be, but his heart sank when he saw the name on the screen. _Sonny_.

                “Hello?” He said, leaning back into his chair.

                “Heya, Dean.” The connection is a little staticky, but the voice was as warm and slow as ever, taking Dean back to the memory of squeaky bunk beds, the sweet smell of grass and hay, a warm, crowded kitchen with chipped plates and always second helpings—“How have you been?”

                “Okay,” Dean said. “Busy, actually. I just moved to Chicago for my job.”

                “Is that right?” Sonny said. He sounded genuinely happy for Dean. “Well, look at you, hotshot. I knew you’d go far.”

                “Thanks,” Dean said. He wanted to say more but it had already all been said before—that he wouldn’t have been able to do it without Sonny, and the home, without being all but shoved onto the school bus every morning, forced to do his homework at the scarred table in Sonny’s kitchen. He would thank Sonny, and Sonny would brush it off like it was nothing, like Dean had somehow accomplished all of that on his own.

                “Anyway,” Dean started. “I was expecting a call from you—”

                “Yeah,” Sonny said. “You gonna be able to make it down this summer? Timmy can’t stop talking about you, and—well, I hate to say it, but we’re running on fumes here. So many people have turned me down this year: Victor can’t make it, Benny can’t come—”

                “So,” Dean began, and stopped, feeling guilty. Sonny had been doing this since he, Victor, and Benny had been there, had been kids themselves. Sonny would ask for his former “boys”—now grown men, non-delinquents, living successful lives—to return to the home for a week or two. They would hang out with Sonny’s current charges: giving advice, listening, their very presence showing that it was possible to get life back on track. Victor, caught shoplifting at fifteen, had become FBI. Benny was a captain of his own shrimping boat off the Gulf of Louisiana.

                Dean, good as dumped there by his dad at sixteen, was a six-figure-making sales director at Sandover Corporation in downtown Chicago. He knew how impressive that could seem to some of these boys—orphaned, abused, panhandling for spare change, before Sonny had taken them in. Even in Sonny’s care, there had always been the dark specter of _after—_ to not get too comfy, because the future didn’t hold anything too bright.

                It was why Dean always tried to make it out there, to see Sonny and the home and, most importantly, the ever-changing faces of the boys who passed through there. Some disappeared through the cracks, but others moved on—getting apprenticeships, or going to community colleges, and other faces grew year to year from scared and standoffish to happy and well-fed.

                The past few years, though, Dean had been busy. He got hired by Sandover, started grinding through sixty hour work weeks. He had vacation days but he was not-so-subtly encouraged not to use them by his then-boss Mr. Adler, who smirked and said things about not wanting Dean to fall behind, how there were so many people vying for an imminent promotion without the company and he would _hate_ to see it handed to someone who wasn’t as hardworking and capable as Dean. He had to beg off two years ago, and last summer, and now Sonny’s calling to ask him about coming to visit in June, a few months from now, but his calendar was full, as full as it had been for the past few years, and he just can’t see a way to do anything else but—

                “I’m sorry,” Dean said. He tried not to sound as guilty as he felt. “I know how important this is to you, Sonny—it’s important to me, too. But I just don’t have the time. Look, I’ll send you a check again. You can treat the boys out to something nice from me—”

                “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sonny said, in a slow, musing tone, but he never had to raise his voice to make Dean feel like shit.

                “Look, I would if I could, and the money can go a long way—”

                “Yes,” Sonny said heavily. “But sometimes we need stuff here that money can’t get us. You know what makes these boys feel special? It’s definitely not seeing this ugly mug every day.”

                “I’m sorry,” Dean said again, at a loss. “I’m doing what I can.”

                “Yeah, okay,” Sonny said after a moment. “I have some other calls I need to make. You take care Dean, okay? I hope I hear from you soon.”

                “You too, Sonny,” Dean said, and waited to hear the other man disconnect before he put down his phone.

                Dean sighed and laced his hands behind his head, swiveling his chair to look out the window. The view from the Sandover building was pretty spectacular; the whole city was laid out before him. Somehow he didn’t see it right then.

                Back in the day, when he was at Sonny’s, he and his friends used to make fun of the richy-rich types who used to live on Sonny’s charity and had since gone on to success. They threw money at the home when Sonny called them up to visit in the summers, so Dean and his friends didn’t care about them. After all, people normally threw money at problems they wished would go away, and Dean was used to being labeled a problem.

                Dean knew he couldn’t say anything else to Sonny. Even though he wanted to see Timmy again, who Sonny had told him in their last conversation, mid-February, had shot up about two inches. Even though he wanted to seek out the cocky, smart-mouthed newbies who reminded him of himself when he first got to Sonny’s. He was always good at relating to the kids, helping them to open up—it was why he originally planned on going into social work after he graduated high school. But somehow things had changed, and he hadn’t been to Sonny’s in years, and he felt so frustrated about those commitments he can’t make that he dreaded seeing Sonny’s name on his cell phone, even though the man good as raised him.

                Dean had become the kind of guy who threw money at problems he wished would go away—no wonder Sandover liked him so much, he thought glumly.

**

                Dean took the L train back home from work that night and decided he probably hated public transportation. The next day, after another trip to work and back, his mind was made up. He _despised_ the L train, with its funky smell and grimy handrails, the claustrophobia, the short tempers, the man who preached at the top of his lungs to him and an exhausted crowd who just wanted to get the fuck home.

                On Wednesday, he boarded the train car as usual and wrapped one hand grimly around the closest pole. He had learned not to make eye contact with other people, to stand there in silence and ignore everyone else, going to his happy place, but that was before a hand appeared next to his on the pole, gripping firmly, and he glanced up reflexively too look at its owner.

                The hand, it had to be said, was a nice hand—elegant long fingers, the palm wide and capable. The face it belonged to was even nicer, but the first thing Dean noticed was how dead-tired the man was. His jaw was set, his mouth a grim line, and Dean’s gaze lingered on the dark shadows beneath the man’s eyes, the hollowed cheeks. To Dean, it didn’t even seem like a case of morning weariness, of not getting a cup of coffee in yet. The man seemed sad, worn down, his shoulders slumping towards the floor.

                Dean couldn’t tell much else about him. The man was wearing a long, tan trench coat, shapeless and a little frayed, that covered any clothing that might tell what kind of job the man had. Dean has to admit that the strange laceless shoes the man is wearing, almost like a pair of Crocs, don’t seem like very appropriate office attire. There was no gold band on the ring finger of the hand currently grasping the pole near Dean. He was, really, just another man on the subway, just one with an infinitely more weary expression than any other early-morning commuters around Dean.

                The man’s gaze suddenly lifted to his and Dean, in a moment of panic, could only do the first thing that occurred to him, and smiled broadly, nervously.

                He was immediately filled with dread, because he should know better than to make eye contact with a stranger on the L train. This man in his flasher trench was probably going to expose himself, cop a feel, maybe demand to know just what Dean thinks he’s doing, staring like that. He was about to quickly avert his eyes, but then the seemingly impossible happened—the man smiled back.

                It didn’t look like he did that often—smile, that was. First, a line creased between his brows, and he stared at Dean in seeming confusion, even turning his head a little, checking over his shoulder, like he thought Dean was smiling at someone else. Then a subtle change came over his face, making him seem years younger—he straightened up a little, not quite _preening_ but with a certain relaxed roll to his shoulders, like under Dean’s attention this man wanted to make himself presentable. His pale, chapped lips slowly pulled up, quirking, the barest hint of teeth. So it wasn’t like Dean was front-row to a Crest commercial, or anything, but he could tell the man was happy because of the warm, electric look in his eyes. He’d never received such an intimate look from a complete stranger. One nervous smile and this was guy was goddamn glowing.

                Dean shuffled his feet, nodded at the man, and eventually looked away. He snuck a peek a few minutes later, and the man was still smiling—looking down, smiling in this small, pleased way that made Dean flush a little, an unexpected thrill zipping through him, and turn back around again.   

                Their hands were right next to each others’ on the pole, not quite touching, until they came to the man’s stop and he stepped away. Dean looked up one last time and saw the man give him this grateful look as he stepped off the train, like Dean had just done something unimaginably nice.

                The train car felt a little bit more claustrophobic after that, and Dean’s hand felt a little cold all alone on the pole, but by the time he reached his stop he had all but forgotten the man, his mind caught up in sales, bonuses, his quarterly review.

**

                Dean had a lot to say about his old boss, Mr. Adler, but at least he _seemed_ like the kind of shark that managed a Forbes 100 company. His partner, Dean’s newest boss, couldn’t be more different.

                _Marv_ , as he preferred to be called, was a short man with a grating voice and what looked like bargain-bin suits. The first time Dean had walked into the guy’s office, he had been appalled to see that the most updated technology the man used in there was a typewriter. Marv was upbeat and friendly enough, but there was something sickly-sweet in his voice that didn’t sit well with Dean, and there was nothing stranger than finding a type-written memo slipped under his door after his lunch break, or a conference call, and knowing that was his boss’s preferred form of communication, like this was a fucking Jane Austen novel. Dean punched out efficient emails on his Blackberry. He didn’t type out product reports and seal them with a stamp.

                Which wasn’t to say Dean didn’t do all he could to get on Marv’s good side. He laughed loudly at Marv’s jokes. When Marv said he needed someone to take point on the newest projects, Dean bulldozed over his colleagues for the position. He kept his door open on the off chance Marv walked by while he was loudly closing a deal. Coming in here, already hailed as successful, wasn’t enough. Dean was determined to do even better.

                Overall, though, Dean seemed  to be fitting in well, even though the hours were long and he wasn’t especially close with any of his coworkers. He was falling into a routine.

                One of the routines was that every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday morning, he saw the man on the L train on his way to work. Wrecked hair, jaw often lined with stubble, a tired squint in his eyes. And every time this man saw Dean—from across the train car, over the head of the woman separating them—the heaviness would fall away and he would smile at Dean, this small, private smile like it was just the two of them there, leaving Dean feeling like he had lightning in his stomach, zipping through his veins. He could only meet the man’s gaze for a moment or two before he had to look away, his palms sweaty on the pole he was holding, but that was all it ever took, that one look. And Dean couldn’t stop himself from looking.

                Dean had the feeling that he made that man’s mornings, just by the strange, loaded seconds they gave each other, smiling and looking away and looking back. He didn’t know quite what to  make of it, only that it was definitely a little weird.

                One Wednesday, for instance, Dean was a little late and got onto a different train car than he usually did. About ten minutes into the commute, after scrolling through some work emails on his phone, he heard the sudden rush of wind as one of the doors between the train cars slid open and then closed again. He looked up in mild interest and saw a tousled head of hair bobbing his way, doggedly weaving through the crammed compartment until the crowd parted and Dean saw the familiar blue eyes, the trench coat, the slumped shoulders. Without a word, the man reached out and grabbed the pole next to Dean, the sleeve of his coat rubbing along Dean’s arm for a moment.

                Dean fiddled with his phone a little more and then—he couldn’t seem to help himself—his gaze lifted and he met the eyes of the man, who swayed a little closer as they took a slight turn. The man seemed relieved, shyly smiling at Dean, his eyes soft and fond, and Dean gave a quick, flustered smile before he looked away again. He knew his ears were red; he could feel them growing warm.

                Later, as he walked from the train to his building, his phone started ringing and he saw it was Victor.

                “I think I’ve had a duckling imprint on me,” Dean said when he answered, still bewildered but amused. “Is there anything I can do about that?”

                Victor took the question in stride. “No, I think it just follows you around for the rest of its life,” he said. “What’s up? Are you free?”

                “For five minutes or so,” Dean said, cradling the phone in his ear as he jogged to beat a flashing DON’T WALK sign. “I’m on my way to work.”

                Victor blew out a sigh. “Have you talked to Sonny yet? He called me a few weeks ago and wanted me to come down in June, but I don’t have a vacation day to spare since the baby…”

                “Yeah,” Dean said. “I’m up to my ears over here, too. It’s no worries; I’m sure _someone_ will make it out there—”

                “Not a single one,” Victor interrupted. “People either can’t come, or have fallen clean off the map. Sonny doesn’t know what he’s gonna tell the kids. And, you know, he’s not as young as he used to be.”

                “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

                “Just, you know,” Victor said uncomfortably. “He won’t always be able to do this. He’s trying to help these boys out as much as possible while he can.”

                “I sent him a check,” Dean said. “I can send him more, too, if he needs it.” He shoulders the front door of his office building open, nodding to one of the receptionists sitting there.

                “Yeah,” Victor said. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s what Sonny had in mind when he said his boys needed help.”

                Dean, hovering by the elevators, really wanted this conversation to be over. He wanted to keep the strange, zinging spark that had gone singing through his body ever since he saw the man with the smile on the L train. He shrugged, feeling irritated.

                “I don’t know what to do about that,” Dean said. “I can’t even take an afternoon off, let alone a whole week to go to Hurleyville and try to get fifteen delinquent boys back on track.”

                “No, I hear you,” Victor said, sounding like he wanted to hear a different answer. “I know you have to go. Talk to you soon, Dean.”

                “Take care, brother,” Dean said, and nodded gratefully to a businesswoman holding the elevator door for him.

                On his way up to his floor, Dean thought about late nights at Sonny’s, when he and Victor and Benny would congregate in one of the bathrooms—they were never allowed to share a room, Sonny knew better than that—smoking in the bathtub together, knees brushing, smiles shared by the glow of their cigarettes. They always talked about how they couldn’t want to get out of Sonny’s, like they had this world of fantastic options waiting for them. It was a lot of posturing, and they knew it.

                Sonny had given them other things. A steady hand, a proud smile, a quiet manner good for listening. He helped foster relationships between the boys, brotherhoods, that Dean still kept to this day. Sonny had a photo album of all the boys who’d been through, and he liked to point out some of the young, uncertain faces—this one became an airline attendant, this one became an electrician. They didn’t seem like small successes, not when Dean and Victor and Benny knew that those boys had come from places like them, broken homes, black records, dead-ends. Dean was supposed to feel like a success story now, too. Instead, all he felt was a drop in his stomach, like the elevator was going down instead of up.

**

                It continued like this for another two weeks. Dean doesn’t know a single thing about this man on the L train. He doesn’t know his job, or his name, or even what his voice sounds like. He doesn’t know why the man seems so desperately unhappy that even a smile from a stranger can make his day. The only thing Dean knows is that he can expect the handsome man in the trenchcoat every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning around seven, that he can expect the man to find him in any crowd, on any train car, standing a few feet or away or close enough to touch, but always nearby. Close enough for Dean to see the relief that spreads across the man’s face in Dean’s presence, like Dean’s attention, his smile, is as soothing as a balm. Close enough that Dean can see the gentle curve of a grin he gets in return, a look that doesn’t fail to make Dean’s toes curl in his loafers. So what if the man has never said a word to Dean, that he continually susses Dean out every morning like some kind of PI. It might be the weirdest morning ritual of Dean’s life, but _God_ , he enjoys it.

                Work, by contrast, has hit some kind of slump.

                Marv was really cracking the whip, trying to finalize an overseas merger before the month was through. For everyone on Dean’s floor, it was a lot of late nights, delivery food, passive-aggressive memos, ink stilled smeared from the typewriter, shoved under office doors. Dean was the most stressed he’d been since his move.

                Thursday the deal is sealed, to everyone’s general relief. Marv sounds out a celebratory memo, congratulating them all and inviting them to a swanky bar uptown for free drinks. Dean, still sorting through a backlog of other work-related emails, smiled and nodded as his coworkers gradually leave for the night, promising vaguely to see them there.

                The truth was, Dean wasn’t planning on going. He was exhausted. He’d been at work for almost twelve hours by then, and all he wanted was to go home and sink into his Tempur-Pedic mattress and get more than four hours of sleep. He answered a few emails, stared at a spreadsheet for a while, and finally decided to give up for the night. Looking up and down the hallway, he saw everything was deserted. None of his coworkers lingered, their office doors were closed, lights off. Perfect.

                He was waiting at the elevator when he heard a, “Ah, _Dean_ ,” from behind him, almost making him jump out of his skin. He looked around and saw Marv standing there, giving Dean a conspiratorial smile like they were best friends.

                “Hello, sir. Marv,”  Dean corrected quickly, because his boss was big on being informal. “I thought you would be at the bar by now.”

                “It appears my driver can’t make it tonight,” Marv said, affecting unconcern as he studied his nails. “No matter; I knew I’d figure something else out.”

                “Oh?” Dean said, just to be polite. He got this new memory foam pillow last week, and he had been daydreaming all day about finally smushing his face into it and just going lights out.

                “You don’t mind, do you, Dean? It would give us a chance to catch up. You know, man to man.” Marv grinned widely at Dean, and Dean double-taked before he finally understood what Marv was getting at. _Oh_.

                It wasn’t that he disliked Marv, persay, but Dean can’t say he had felt a close connection to anyone at his new job, and Marv would definitely be low on his list. Even though he wanted to impress his new boss, there was something smarmy and overdone about him that rubbed Dean the wrong way, made him want to keep his distance. Marv was more of a used-car salesman than a CEO.

                “I would love that, really,” Dean said, trying to sound apologetic, “but I actually didn’t drive here. I take the L.”

                Marv made an almost comically tragic face then: an exaggerated frown, his shoulders slumping. Dean helplessly shrugged, trying not to meet his eyes. He wished the elevator would arrive already. And then Marv unexpectedly smiled and punched Dean on the arm.

                “Always wanted to take the subway,” Marv said. “You’ll be my Charon, eh? Guide me through the seedy underworld. There’s some lit humor there.” He took Dean by his elbow and pulled him into the elevator as it dinged open. “Didn’t know your boss was such a funny man, didja? Well, there’s more where that came from—”

                By the time Dean was waiting on the train platform with Marv, he felt absolutely drained. Squinting down the tracks, wishing the train would hurry up, he could still hear Marv talking animatedly, almost as if at a distance. Dean gave a forced laugh from time to time to show he was listening. Fuck, he just wanted to be home right now. He dragged a hand down his face while Marv hopped around next to  him on the platform, performing a move he learned in his Krav Maga class. At least the platform was mostly deserted at this time of night; no one staring or silently judging Dean for accompanying this whackjob.

                “—Called the third rail, which runs at about 750 volts, and that thing is _powerful_. It could electrocute the crap out of someone! Of course I’m sure that doesn’t happen all the time, someone would have to fall on the tracks or something—pardon my pun, Dean, but wouldn’t that add a certain _shock_ to the morning commute if someone—”

                The L pulled in with a hiss and Dean abruptly stepped past Marv, dropping into the first seat he found. It would be about a ten minute ride to their station; another ten minutes to walk to the bar Marv was treating them too. Hopefully Dean could make a quick appearance, get lost in the crowd, and slip away. He could still be home within an hour or so, without Marv jabbering away in his ear like a demented walkie talkie.

                The train was about a quarter filled, a small group of teenagers huddled nearby, trying to stand in a inconspicuous ring while one boy in the middle took a drag from a joint. A woman with a washed-out face was picking her nails across from him. A few other people standing or sitting silently, swaying with the motion of the train accelerating.

                “So this is how the other half lives,” Marv said in a loud aside to Dean. “Fascinating, fascinating. Look at them all, Dean-o. See their blank, lifeless eyes? They’re like _cattle_.”

                “Yeah,” Dean mumbled, trying to indiscreetly edge away from Marv as one of the men on the other side of the train raised his head to look over.

                “Good grief, that smell!” Marv continued. “One of these people must have taken a dump on a corner, Dean; nothing else could explain it.”

                Dean was relieved that most of that sentence was drowned out as they come lurching to another stop, the doors hissing open to allow more passengers. The train car filled up with a handful of other people. Dean was barely paying attention, more concerned with the building pressure behind his eyes, which is why he initially didn’t find it strange when a pair of pale blue plastic clogs entered his vision, the tips almost nudging Dean’s feet.

                He had been drowning Marv out, but now he lifted his head in time to watch Marv saying,

                “Uh, _hello_ ,” looking at this newcomer with a skittish, frozen smile, like Marv thought he better humor this guy so nothing escalated. Dean looked up, too, expecting to see a hulking stranger, a strung-out addict, but instead he saw the man who smiles at Dean during the morning commute. The man who smiled at Dean now, too.

                The thing was, Dean had never seen the man on his trip home. He normally didn’t stay so late. So it was a bit of a nice surprise, seeing the trench-coated man grasping the pole over Dean’s head, completely ignoring Marv’s greeting, just beaming down at Dean in this tired, happy way that had Dean’s heart thudding in his chest, making him temporarily forget his headache. He even forgot about Marv, sitting next to him, because he was too preoccupied with the warming tingle running through him, the sudden jolt of awareness at the man’s proximity. The man standing in front of him had a dark five o’ clock shadow, darker rings under his eyes, his hair in untamed spikes. But he also looked relieved, a faint flush high on his cheeks. Like even though he looked bone-weary, uncared for, just seeing Dean again had made his day. Dean didn’t think anyone had ever reacted to him that way, like his presence alone was a pleasant surprise, a source of comfort.

                Marv tapped Dean on his shoulder. “Dean,” he said nervously, startling them. “Dean, do you know this man?”

                Dean blinked, breaking eye contact with the smiling man. “Uh…” He said, eyes already darting back to the stranger.

                The answer was probably, _no, not technically_. They’d been commuting together for almost a month, now, never saying a word. But always knocking shoulders, exchanging smiles, goddamn hearts in their eyes. Dean didn’t _know_ the man, but he did know that the mornings he saw him, he felt a bit lighter as he walked into Sandover’s office. Felt like he had one connection here in this city, one person who cared enough to look out for him.

                Marv, mistaking his silence for something else, squared his shoulders and turned back to the man standing over Dean. “Look, pal,” he said. “We don’t want a scene, okay? But you should probably shove off already.” He made a shooing motion at the man, who looked between Marv and then Dean, his eyebrows drawing together with confusion. Dean watches the man’s smile waver, shrink a little.

                “It’s  not—” Dean said, but Marv waved his hand, speaking over him.

                “You’re making my friend very uncomfortable,” Marv said, speaking slowly, like he thought the man didn’t understand English. His voice was loud, attracting the attention of other people on the train car. The group of teenagers looked over, moved a few steps away. “If he’s not gonna say something about it, I will.”

                Dean felt slow, and stupid, like his  brain was covered in fuzz. He doesn’t want to contradict his puffed-up boss, he knew Marv would be offended by it after all this showing off. But he also doesn’t like the way the man in front of him tucked his chin back into his neck, suddenly self-conscious, small.

                The man shook his head, looking at Dean to set things straight.

                “I’m not trying—” He began, and stopped. It was the first time Dean had heard him talk, and in another situation he might be more intrigued by the rough, deep quality of the man’s voice. Now, he watched, similarly hopeless, as the man struggled to find a way to describe their relationship. “We see each other on mornings,” the man said softly, his shoulders drawing up around his ears.

                Marv gave Dean a _get a load of this guy_ look. Dean, miserable, saw how much Marv was enjoying himself.  “I mean, you seen one, you seen them all, am I right, Dean? Pretty face like yours, I bet you attract the crazies all the time here on the L. Gotta keep your wits about you, you know? Fend off unwelcome advances. Even a smile encourages them. You feeling okay, Dean? Why the long face?”

                Dean opened his mouth—he was going to say something, right? He was going to correct Marv, save the situation—but the man’s smile had already slid off his face like he’d been struck. He gave one long blink, eyes sliding away from Dean, down to the floor, and stepped away. He shouldered his way past two bystanders in the crowd, who silently parted for him like they hadn’t seen a thing. Dean stood up, throat working, but the L train was already slowing, Marv was grabbing his sleeve, asking where he was going, and he saw a flicker of tan as the man all but ran from the train car, quickly stepping onto the platform and out of Dean’s sight.

                All over in a matter of seconds. Dean slowly sunk down into his seat again.

                “You’ve gotta be harsh with them,” Marv said sagely. “Honestly, Dean, that man—” He pantomimed snorting something into his nose. “You know what I mean. Acting like he knew you, standing _way_ too close. You don’t want to give them the wrong impression!”

                “Them?” Dean said faintly. His headache was back. He has a sense of massively fucking up, a sinking sense of dread. All  he could think about was the way the man’s eyes had held his for a second, puzzled, pleading, as Marv had berated him. The look of embarrassed realization when Dean hadn’t done anything to correct his boss.

                “Yeah, them,” Marv said. “The psychos you get on here at night. I know all about it; I’ve read the papers. Hey, I think this is our stop! Good thing your old pal Marv was around to save the day, huh? Would you mind telling the marketing team all about it when we get there?—Don’t want to seem full of myself, you know, but if _you_ told it—”

                Dean followed Marv out  onto the city street, thinking of the crowded bar and the mixed drinks and the laughter of his coworkers. Polite chitchat, easy schmoozing. The last thing he felt like doing was smiling.

**

                Dean’s memory foam pillow wasn’t as cracked up as he thought it would be. At least, that would explain why he felt unrested, unsettled, when his alarm blared the next morning. After a long moment, staring at the ceiling, he kicked himself into action. It was a Friday, and on Friday’s he normally saw the man on the L train. He needed to do something—apologize, explain. The whole thing had felt like a bad dream, one of those nightmares where Dean tried to move and couldn’t. He flushed in shame when he thought about how he had sat there, dumbed down, tongue heavy, while Marv talked down to the man. He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t done something earlier, before the whole thing went to shit.

                Dean’s nerves were high when the train came to the stop where the smiling man normally boarded, but when he looked around the crowded train car he didn’t see the familiar trench coat of the man, or his head of wild dark hair. He tried to look around surreptitiously, not catching anyone’s eye, but the man was definitely absent. Dean was sure that was on purpose.

                After a few minutes of standing there in indecision, Dean apologized and pushed through the car, shuffling grumpy morning commuters aside he looked through the train car. The L slowed to another stop a few minutes later and he took the opportunity to jump cars, scanning through unfamiliar faces to find the one who had come to be so regular for his mornings here. Two stops later, two more cars, he saw a man sitting on one of the bench seats, hand curled loosely around the pole at his side, something heavy in the set of his shoulders. The man had always seemed like he carried a great weight around on his shoulders, except for when he was smiling at Dean. Dean would recognize those shoulders anywhere.

                He can’t say how the man was alerted to his presence, but the man suddenly looked up, catching Dean’s eye from across the car, and Dean could only watch while his mouth tightened down into a grim line. The man looked away and shook his head. It was pretty packed in this car, people unwilling to move, and Dean stopped to second-guess himself. He didn’t know anything about this man. Was it worth an apology? Was it worth whatever reaction it might elicit from this stranger?

                He feels the guilt needling in his chest again. Even if the stranger ignored him, loudly dismissed him, Dean still felt the need to apologize. With renewed vigor, he started forward again, slithering between unmoving bodies, ducking around briefcases and backpacks.

                The man stood from his seat—trying to get away?—but then the whole car lurched, and the people around Dean started rearranging themselves, milling around towards exits. _Not again_ , Dean thought, remembering how the man had so quickly gotten off the train the night before, but it was no use. The man quickly pivoted around a group of schoolchildren as Dean drew nearer, and Dean was about to reach out for his sleeve when he saw the small black rectangle go tumbling from the man’s pocket, lost in the confusion of feet.

                “Hey,” Dean said. “Hey, uh, you! Your wa—” He stopped himself, not wanting to advertise to the whole car that the man’s money was being kicked around on the floor somewhere. Dropping to his knees, he reached between sneakers and high heels, had the fingers of his left hand briefly squashed, and managed to snag the corner of the scuffed leather wallet, pulling it across the grimy floor towards himself.

                He stood, stumbling a bit, looking around to return it to its owner, but the man was nowhere to be seen. The train doors were closing again, Dean was surrounded by a sea of disinterested faces, and Dean felt cheated, upset, holding the wallet of a man who he didn’t even know the name of.

                After a moment of indecision he tucked it away in his breast pocket. He will look at it later when he’s not surrounded by people. Hopefully he will be able to find some way to contact the man. For now, he made his way over to the seat the man so recently vacated, feeling tired and guilty, feeling the weight of the wallet settle against his chest, heavy, as he sat down.

**

                It was a slow day of work at the office. Some of his coworkers still seemed a little hungover, shambling about. Talk was going around that the respite is brief; another big project is already looming, large as a thundercloud, for sometime next week. Barely even a chance to sit back and breathe.

                Dean, sitting in his office with the door closed, carefully looked through the items within the man’s wallet. Two crumpled twenties, two credit cards, a laminated picture of the Virgin Mary with the Hail Mary printed on the back. Dean worked the man’s driver’s license out of its pocket and studies it. Castiel Novak, it said, with a picture of the man’s unsmiling face. Twenty nine years old. A Sagittarius. The address listed there was for a part of town Dean wasn’t too familiar with. It wasn’t a _bad_ part of town, necessarily, but it did make Dean think of small, cramped apartments stacked one on top of the other, ovens still left over from the 1970’s, yellow water stains on the ceiling.

                At any rate, Dean would be at work until five or six. Even if he made it over to the man’s home by nightfall, there was no guarantee the man would even be there, and Dean wouldn’t want to just leave the wallet there unattended. Mailing the wallet would just be stupid, considering he saw the man in the morning more often than not; not to mention Dean wanted to see him face to face.  He opened the wallet again, looking for anything else that could be identifying, and reached into the pocket that held the two twenty dollar bills. Between them, his fingers closed over a rectangular piece of plastic, a bump of smooth metal. He quickly pulled it out, finding an ID card attached to a clip. _Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago_ , it says, with another picture of the man—beneath it, _Castiel Novak, RN._

Well. That explained the strange blue clogs he wore, the varied schedule, the long hours that seeing him twice on the L the day before attested to. Dean studied the ID again before tucking it back into the wallet. The man would probably need that for work sooner than later.

                For the first time in Dean’s seven years at Sandover, he actually left the building for his lunch hour. He heard Marv calling out his name as he waited for the elevator, but he pretended he didn’t hear him, quickly boarding the elevator and hitting the button for the doors to close.

                All things considered, the Lurie Children’s Hospital  wasn’t too far away. Dean had seen its blue, geometric façade before, had admired it, but never stopped too long to look at it. Now, he wondered how Castiel Novak and his world-weary shoulders must walk up to the doors every morning, clipping on his nursing ID, pulling himself together for an exhaustive shift.

                When Dean entered the hospital, he immediately went up the front desk, where a small queue had formed. It had been sixish hours since he saw Castiel Novak on the L train, surely the man had noticed the absence of his wallet since them. He can’t keep himself from looking around, like he expected to see the man at any moment, although surely the man has plenty of better things to do.

                When Dean finally reached the front of the line, he brought out the wallet by way of explanation.

                “I found this on my way to work this morning,” he said. “I think it belongs to one of your nurses here—Cas-teel Novak?—”

                The woman smiled widely at Dean, already reaching for a phone.

                “Yes, Castiel. Oh, he’ll be so relieved that he didn’t lose it!” She said. “Just one second,  let me page him—”

                “Wait,” Dean said, feeling the nerves build up in his stomach. “I can just leave it here, you don’t have to call him now…” Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He doesn’t want Castiel Novak to look at him in that disappointed, avoidant way he had earlier today.

                “Nonsense,” the woman said. “He’ll want to thank you for finding it.” Her finger presses down on a button. “This is the front desk paging Oncology. Can Nurse Novak please come to the front desk. Thank you.”

                Dean nodded to her and stepped away, letting the next person behind him step forward. His hand is a little sweaty on the fake leather of the wallet; he quickly wipes it on his suit pants.

                Not even five minutes later, Dean saw Castiel Novak come in from a hallway, looking around with a slight frown of confusion. Without the trench coat, Dean could see the scrubs he was wearing—a cheery sky-blue, all over with bright yellow bumblebees. Dean stared for a moment, taking in the whole picture—a stethoscope with a smiley-face sticker over the chestpiece, the tan, lean arms revealed by the short-sleeved top. Even with the frown of confusion, he looked alert, approachable. Dean could only guess how much Castiel put into that appearance of upbeat professionalism in the oncology ward of a children’s hospital. How, when the shift was over, he must be so tired and upset from all he’s held in all day.

                Dean waved awkwardly, bringing Castiel’s attention to him. The man’s eyes widened. He gestured to the wallet.

                “You, uh, dropped this on the L,” Dean said. “I figured out might need it, you know. It’s kind of an important thing to have, and, uh, I tried to bring it as soon as I could.” He wished he could slap his hand over his mouth to make himself stop talking.

                Castiel took a few hesitant steps towards him. “That was very kind of you,” he said, although his voice is polite, distant.

                Dean shrugged. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Smith. About time we finally introduced ourselves, right?”

                The man’s eyes swept over Dean. “Right,” he said. He reached out and took the wallet from Dean, who watched it slip from between his fingers without a word. Castiel flipped open the wallet, pulled out the two twenties, and held them out for Dean to take.     

                “Oh,” Dean said. He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to—I was _happy_ to just come by, honest—”

                Castiel’s hand twitched a little, impatient. “I was going to put up flyers. Offer a reward for whoever found it.”

                Dean smiled at that, how out-of-touch that seemed, putting up flyers at the train station, but for once Castiel did not return Dean’s smile.

                “Okay,” Dean said. He shoved his hands into his suit pockets so Castiel couldn’t foist the money at him. “Look. Yesterday was not my shining moment. I was a huge dick, okay? That man with me, his name is Marv, and he’s my boss. And I let him say some really rude, untrue things--"

               "Untrue?" Cas interrupted.

               "Uh, yeah," Dean said, rubbing the back of his head. "He made it seem like you were some kind of unstable, touched-in-the-head crazy--"

                Cas interrupted him again. "Just how _do_ you think I became interested in the medical field?" His eyes were narrowed into  _just-try-me_ slits, and Dean had his back against the wall, no escape routes in sight, thinking Hell was probably a lot more pleasant than this.

                "I, look. Shit," he said, fumbling over his words. "It was a rude fucking thing to say, regardless, and no one's gonna argue with that. And I didn't stop him because I didn't know--I mean, he’s my _boss_ , and I don't even know what to call this thing with us—” He gestured between the two of them. “I’m glad I’m the one who found your wallet, but I’m also glad I could finally track you down to say that I’m sorry. I really, really am. About everything. I’m not the asshole that I seemed to be on the train last night. I swear.”

                He felt like there were some things he didn’t get out right. That Marv was a kooky multimillionaire, known for being temperamental, and Dean had just been trying not to rock the boat by refuting the man who could make or break his career. That he’d been feeling tired and grinded down by the job last night, almost even shell-shocked, and somehow that had made him sit there passive, blank-faced. That wasn’t _him._ Dean was a good person who didn’t deal with other peoples’ bullshit off the job. Ask Sonny, or Victor, or Benny. Dean was one of the good guys.

Castiel looked at him for a long moment. His eyes weren’t so cold anymore, but he still didn’t seem that softened towards Dean.

                “Dean,” he said firmly. “There isn’t anything between us. I admit that for a short time you were something that I looked forward to most of the day.”

                “Oh,” Dean said. “Uh, good.”

                “But now we know each others’ names, you know where I work. So to be clear—we might know each other a little better. But I can’t say I’m interested in knowing much more about a person who won’t stand up for what is right.”

                “That’s not what I—”

                “You were trying to impress your boss,” Castiel said. “I hope you did. You also made me feel quite humiliated in the process. Now, I was going to give this forty dollars to whoever returned my wallet. I would feel much better about this whole thing if you took it, Dean.”

                Wordlessly, Dean took a hand out of his pocket and let Castiel drop the money into his palm.

                “Thank you,” Castiel said. He folded up his wallet and nodded at Dean. “Goodbye, Dean.”

                Just like last night on the L, Castiel didn’t wait around for Dean’s throat to become unstuck. Dean watched as the man strode away, how Castiel braced himself up as he returned to his job, like a soldier returning to battle.

                The lady at the front desk briefly waylaid Castiel, waving cheerily at him. Dean loitered in the lobby, listening to the pleasant chitchat—how wonderful it was that Castiel had his wallet returned to him No, he hadn’t had lunch yet—couldn’t buy it, what with his money missing. No, ma’am, hadn’t brought dinner either, but he was sure he had leftovers at home—yes, he _was_ perfectly healthy, as a nurse he could attest to that.

                No, he didn’t know the man who had returned his wallet to him. Just a stranger on the train.

**

                Back in his office, stomach grumbling without lunch, Dean sat defeatedly in his chair.

                And sat. And sat.

                Dean was used to being liked. He was used to using charm, or charisma, or easy likeability—whatever it was, he was used to drawing people in. He had a knack for making quick friends—and sure, that was useful in the business—but he was even better at keeping them. Sad to say, sometimes people didn’t think there was more to Dean beyond the surface. He prided himself on being a good friend: loyal, helpful, occasionally tough-loving if the situation called for it. So maybe he hadn’t felt a connection with any of the other sharks on his floor, but nonetheless—if Dean had to brag about one thing about himself, he’d bank on it being he was a fucking good person.

                It felt like a bit of a slap in the face, that someone would like the surface Dean, the Dean seen from afar on a train car, and then just say _no, thanks_ to getting to know Dean any better. That he could be deemed as an unlikable, unworthy person—well. That kind of hurt.

                Except, really, Dean deserved it. Why would Castiel Novak have come to any other kind of conclusion? Dean had sat there silently affirming everything Marv had to say—and Marv had had a lot to say. It  wasn’t a question that, out of the two, Dean liked Castiel more. Even though he had never talked to him before then, never exchanged more than a smile. And yet he threw him to the wolves, there. For what? To get ahead at the job, to not undermine his boss? Dean hadn’t come across as a nice person at all. In fact, he’d come across as some kind of spineless, brown-nosing yuppie.

                From what Dean knew of Castiel, he worked long shifts in a children’s hospital, an oncology ward. It was doubtlessly a noble job, but also a hard job, one that could probably take a lot out of a person. For a brief time, Castiel had seen something in Dean that acted as some kind of comfort. Dean’s smile alone had been the highlight of his day. But now Dean knew that Castiel, even short as he was on sources of reassurance, wasn’t one to compromise. It seemed like once Castiel decided something, his mind was made up.

                And this just opened a whole new can of worms, because it wasn’t just that one time on the L, was it? Dean striving all day at a job he didn’t even really like that much, schmoozing and making deals, promising lunches and drinks when he never planned to do such a thing.  Pressing the silencer on his phone when Sonny called, blowing him off for three straight years. When was the last time he saw any of them—Sonny, or the kids there, or the kids he grew up with?

                There was a loud knock on the door, and Dean looked up just in time to see Marv  tipping his head through the half-open door, smiling widely at him.

                “Hey, Dean!” He said. “Fun times last night, right? So I just stopped in to say—”

                “I’m taking a two week vacation in June,” Dean blurted out. “I’ll be Hurleyville, being a counselor, and I won’t be able to take calls or emails.”       

                Marv blinked. “Well, Dean,” he said. “We have a lot coming up in this next quarter. Are you sure you can’t—”

                “I’m sure,” Dean said, sounding more confident than he felt. He was really toeing the line, here—he wondered if he was about to get fired. “Two weeks. No work. Take it or leave it.”

                In the silence that followed, Dean’s boss nodded and stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him. Marv nodded seriously. “Okay, Dean,” he whispered, like they were making a serious deal. “That’s a pretty steep call, but I’ll take it. I like you, Dean. You’re one of the best.” He came up to Dean, reaching up to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And, you know, you remind me a lot of myself at your age—so much potential, so much charisma—“

                Dean stepped away from Marv’s hand. “Is it that bad already?” He asked. “Well, fuck.”

                Half an hour later, Dean left the office, all his supplies hastily jumbled into a box under his arm. Once outside, he tipped his face up to the sky, feeling the sun on his face, and let himself break out into a smile.  This felt like a start.

                He took out his phone. There was a call he needed to make.

**

                Forty dollars can actually buy a lot of food. Dean, sitting on the L train that night—tie hanging open, shirtsleeves rolled up—anxiously doublechecked everything that he’d brought. Chinese, Indian, American, Mexican. He didn’t have the first clue to what Castiel Novak liked. He wanted to.

                7:30 on a Friday night, the L train was starting to get filled up. Dean was unapologetic about saving the empty seat next to him, scaring off people with a territorial glare. At last, the train ground to a stop at Castiel Novak’s platform. And Dean saw the him—the shoulders of his trench coat wet with rain, tired and unsmiling, step into his car.

                Dean half-stood up, freezing when Castiel caught eyes with him. Feeling pathetic, he gestured towards the bags of take-out piled up on the seat next to him. Castiel’s eyes flicked over the food and then back to Dean.

                For a brief moment, they lost sight of each other. More people filled up the car, clamoring towards seats or a spot near a pole. Dean scanned the crowd, heart sinking, and  then he saw the pale blue nursing shoes coming to a stop next to him.

                “May I?” Castiel said, gesturing to the seat next to Dean.

                Dean scrambled, quickly picking up handles, hot take-out boxes, to make room for the man to sit next to him. Castiel waited, hands in the pocket of his trench coat, until there was space for him to sit down.

                Castiel settled in, folding his hands in his lap, and they both stared straight ahead for a few minutes, not saying anything. Finally, Castiel inclined his head towards Dean and the bags of food piled on his lap.

                “Is some of that for me?” He asked.

                “As much as you want,” Dean said hastily. “Whatever you like, I wasn’t sure—”

                “Burgers first,” Castiel said decisively. “Good choice, Dean.” And then he reached over, across Dean’s lap, and started rustling around in the bag for his food. Dean felt the warmth of Castiel’s shoulder against his chest, and that familiar, electric jolt that came with the man’s presence. He looked off over Cas’s tousled, rainwater-smelling hair and tried to play it cool.

                Cas unwrapped his burger and bit into it, closing his eyes in bliss as he did. He gestured towards the bags, still chewing.

                “Are you going to—?” He said, after swallowing, and Dean quickly fumbled open a bag, grabbing a container of sesame chicken.

                “Yeah, yeah,” he said, scrabbling around for a plastic fork. “I’ll, uh, eat with you. At the same time.” He looked down at his food. “Together.”

                When he glanced up again, he caught the tail end of a warm, good-humored look that Cas was giving him.

                “I quit my job today,” Dean said after a while. “It’s—well it was really spontaneous, and I think maybe a little crazy. I just suddenly realized that it’s not what I want to do, none of it. That’s not me.”

                “What are you going to do, Dean?” Cas said, crumpling his burger wrapper up in his fist. And Dean saw how this could go, all the routes branching out from there. Castiel’s stop was coming up soon, and their food was half-eaten, and Castiel surely didn’t owe him anything.

                So Dean told him about growing up on the road, and being left behind by his dad at Sonny’s, and how that was actually the best thing that ever happened to him. How he completed high school and even made varsity wrestling.  How he went to Sandover and had to start from the very bottom rung, had to throw everything he could into proving himself, and never thinking what he achieved was enough. How he and Benny and Victor went their separate ways, but they kept in touch—at police academy, at community college, from the top floor of an office building. From the middle of the ocean. They were there for each other.

                And, when the L train lurched to a halt at Cas’s stop, Cas calmly reached forward and grabbed another burger from the bag sitting on the seat between them, and he started to tell Dean about his day. Twelve hour shifts, four days a week. Terminal illnesses. Parents always expecting something from him, always hoping he can perform miracles. And he goes home and he collapses into bed sometimes, because it all seems so hopeless and he doesn’t know what else to do. But he always goes back, because even if he can only help in the smallest of ways, he’d rather do that than nothing at all.

                “And that’s what seeing you every morning did for me,” Cas said. He gave a quick, shy glance over at Dean. “Just the smallest smile…”

                “Yeah,” Dean said. “Me too.”

                And then, like a magic trick, they both smile at each other. And Dean wondered to himself how he had lived so long without the sweet, kind smiles that no one had but Cas Novak.

                Hours passed, and still they talked. Dean passed his stop three times, then four. Their food got cold. Slowly the crowd thinned out, until at some points there were only a handful of people on their train car.

                And at some point Dean felt a warm pressure on his shoulder, and it was Cas, exhausted from his long shift, head slumped over onto Dean. Dean put an arm around Cas’s shoulders in return and stretched his legs out, sighing.

                There was a lot Dean planned to do in these next few months, now that his schedule had opened up. He wanted to get in touch with some old contacts who went into social work, take some night classes, help kids here that weren’t lucky enough to know a man named Sonny. He wanted to work in a small cubicle, in an understaffed office, where there was no chance of bonuses or glamorous promotions.  He was okay with starting at the bottom of the rung again. He wanted to sell his swanky, spacious apartment and move into something a bit more affordable.

                He wanted to date Castiel Novak, to bring him coffee at work, to heat him up leftovers while Cas rested with his feet up after a long day. He wanted sleep nights over in a cramped, underheated apartment, cold shins pressed together, and learn the texture of Cas’s skin, the taste of his sweat, until the only reason Cas was slumped and bone-weary was because Dean had so exhaustively worked him over, pulled him apart. Until Cas’s sated smile was the last thing Dean saw every night.

                And then there were other things, too. Sonny had been thrilled on the phone earlier today, couldn’t want to tell the boys that Dean was coming, after all. He wanted to load up and drive Baby out to Sonny’s home in Hurleyville, New York come June. He wanted to find the boys who reminded him of himself—smart-mouthed, terrified, used to being told they’re going nowhere fast. He wanted to spend weeks there, in his childhood home, doing the smallest things he could to make a difference.

                And maybe, in the evenings, Dean could take Cas out to the old, paint-flaking swing on Sonny’s porch and hold hands with him, and watch the sunset together, and feel like this was finally enough.

                The L train slid through the night, brakes wheezing, doors huffing open, people trickling on and then off again. For hours, Dean sat on the subway and planned, arm around Castiel’s shoulders, eyes dazzled with possibilities, perfectly content where he was.

                Dean had so many plans.

                And sometime in the early hours Cas snuffled himself awake, rubbing his cheek into Dean’s shoulder, and pressed a drowsy kiss to Dean’s neck, and said in a sleep-scratchy voice, “Hello, Dean.”

                And Dean told him all about them.

**

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a oneshot kick.
> 
> So I dooo still have more coming. There's a very special story just for Maeleene that I've been trying to perfect for her. Also a Heaven oneshot, and a conman fic, and another chapter of all roads home...  
> I'll have more in the coming week! Thanks to all lovely readers!
> 
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


End file.
